For the Love of a Hedge Knight
by Serpentina
Summary: What might have been, if Myrcella 'Baratheon' had not died… AU, Canon Divergence/ Set after Season 5 - on The beautiful Isle of Tarth
1. Prologue

**For the Love of a Hedge Knight**

 **Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations written by G.R.R. Martin. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended and no money is being made. The plot of this fiction is all mine, however.

 **Summary:** What might have been, if Myrcella 'Baratheon' had not died…

AU, Canon Divergence/ Set after Season 5 - on The beautiful Isle of Tarth

 **Prologue**

"That's all I am – sweet little lioness –" he whispered sadly, brushing his knuckles across her cheek and the still angry red scar that reached from there half way around her ear shell, in a gesture of pure, desperate tenderness before he sat back on his heels, gesturing to the dim, green arbour of the age-old hedge surrounding them. "A non-landed knight as poor and venturous as they come. I can not even guarantee you the comfort of a bed to rest your pretty head upon each night. But however selfish and ruthless I may be – I love you – way too dearly to ever burden you with a life like that…"

"That's not all you are, or could be," she contradicted, pressing his hands in a gentle gesture of emphasise and confirmation.

"What else could I ever be to you?" he asked sadly, turning his head away, too upset to even look upon her.

Her soft, gentle hand cupping his cheek in return felt like nothing he had experienced ever before. His eyes fluttering shut, he leaned into the touch of the sweet, fair-haired maiden, who kneeled along with him, amid the dried leaves beneath the hedgegrow, where golden sunlight speckled the ground.

"You would be – mine –" she breathed, softly. Her voice no more than a whisper, but no less sincere, "as I'm – yours – entirely…"

" _That_ – I already am…" he croaked out, a rather sad, slightly bitter laugh breaking from his lips.

"Then consider – Ser Bronn of the Blackwater – " she gently said, "consider that, as good brother to King Tommen of House Baratheon, first of his name, you would not remain a landless knight for sure. You could be – so many things – as my Lord Husband. This I pledge to you by the old gods and the new…"

"That's not what I love you for – Myrcella –" he murmured, awestruck, pressing his forehead against hers as he spoke.

"I know," she whispered, clasping his face with both of her hands as she kissed him ...

 **AN** : This is the Prologue of a multi-chaptered story, I hope you'll enjoy.

Your feedback is highly and intensely appreciated!

Serpentina


	2. White Horses upon the Shores of Tarth

**For the Love of a Hedge Knight**

Chapter 1 _– White Horses upon the Shores of Tarth –_

 _~Lord Selwyn~_

The rain poured down in a constant torrent of icy water, turning the dirt before the castle gate into mud in less than a day.

' _Winter is coming.'_

The well known and fairly dreaded words of House Stark did cast their shadows before on the Isle of Tarth, likewise.

Admittedly, for now aestival mildness and the warmth of late summer still prevailed. Trees and bushes stood unchanged, yet, clad in a thick coat of lively green without the trace of any autumnally colours.

But the sapphire blue waters were wind-whipped more and more frequently these days and heavy waves, crowned with a whirl of white horses rolled into the bay and flouted the vast, sandy shores up to the line of the dunes.

There were days that suggested the clouds, might attempt to touch the tops of the green hills' gently ascending slopes, when they piled in from the open sea, grey and heavy with rain.

And with increasing frequency there were days like this one, when it was nearly impossible to tell the hour of the day by the trail of the sun that simply refused to show through a clouded sky.

Winter was coming, indeed and Lord Selwyn only hoped _she_ would return back home before it truly reached them. A foolish hope, possibly, though no less heartfelt.

 _~oo~_

It was on a rainy, clouded late afternoon like those that three unknown riders approached the castle.

The horses' legs and bellies were muddy and covered with dirt that even reached up to their riders' boots and the hems of their cloaks.

Cloaks that did not give away anything about their identity or purpose, bearing neither house colours nor any heraldic device.

The horses, however, dapple-grey and hardy, were the unmistakeable breed of Tarth, which probably meant they had been brought, traded, or borrowed at the harbour. Or stolen… With a tense sigh Lord Selwyn exhaled the breath he had been holding. He truly hoped it would not turn out to be the latter.

So far he could not see much of the travellers approaching the castle. All three of them had the hoods of their thick, woollen cloaks drawn deeply into their faces to shield themselves from the uncomfortable blows of rain that hit them from the shore.

But as they neared the castle gate, he could make out more and more details about their appearance.

Two of them were men, he noticed – adept riders for sure, warriors probably – according to the swiftness and the easy flow with which their movements followed the uneven motions of their horses' on the slippery ground. It was impossible to tell their social or military ranks or even their age, though.

One of them seemed to be wounded albeit, since he held his right arm in a strangely impassive way against his chest and lead the reins with his left, instead.

Both of these strangers were carrying sword-belts.

The third however did not.

Everything about the fragile form of said, traveller radiated vulnerability and exhaustion.

This might rather be a woman – or girl, probably…

Strands of blond hair fell out from under the hood and for a moment – a precious, fleeting moment Lord Selwyn hoped, truly hoped – but realised the vainness of his feeble streak of hope as soon as he grasped for it already.

Even with the _best_ of good wills – considering the hair might have simply grown during the time of her absence and the darker colour might be explained as a possible result of dirt or simply the wetness of the rain – he had to admit the truth to himself.

The young woman who sat slightly bent forward atop her horse, swaying every now and then from weakness and exhaustion was too fragile and by no means tall enough to be the one he had not creased hoping to see, in spite the years of her absence. As much as the realisation hurt him after the first fleeting ray of hope – this just could not be Brienne.

Both of her companions seemed to be particularly concerned of their female fellow traveller as they hardly ever turned their attention from her to see how she was faring.

And when they reached the castle doors, Lord Selwyn could finally see what caused the state she was in. The girl's face was still mainly hidden beneath a hooded cloak, but the hair falling across her right shoulder was soaked and matted with blood – old and new. There must be a wound, at her face or neck, probably still bleeding.

Whoever these strangers were and whatever their aspires might be, it was probably wise to inform Maester Caron due to the girl's condition, Selwyn assumed and for once he was glad about the fact – that this was not Brienne for sure.

 _~oo~_

He met them down at the outer ward as they rode in. All of them wet and muddy, indeed and at close range the young woman appeared to be even more weak and traumatized. Streaks of her hair had incrusted into the mess of dried blood. There was still fresh seeping blood, indeed. The wound, only fairly crusted over as it seemed, slightly reopened by the tug of her hair on the wound whenever she turned her head.

The dark haired man – the one who used both of his hands – reached out to lift her off her horse. Weakly and boneless, she slumped against him as he held her, the support of his arms probably the only thing that kept her standing at the moment.

Within an instant the other man was by her side as well, touching her shoulder in a gesture of concern and comfort as he checked upon her.

Then however he turned to face their audience, brushing back his hood with his left.

His eyes widening in surprise, Lord Selwyn of Tarth was truly taken aback at the sight of his guest's identity. It was the 'Kingslayer', standing one-handed and golden haired amid his castle yard.

"Lord Selwyn," he addressed him, fair-spoken, but not without a serious trace of urgency. "Please accept my thanks for granting us entrance in dire straits. You will have a lot of questions of course and I will stand you answer to all of them. I am Jaime Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock and these are Ser Bronn of the Blackwater and – Princess Myrcella Baratheon – my niece. As you see, she has been wounded and is in serious need of the adequate supply of a Maester. So, if you kindly offer us the required treatment, I owe you a debt of gratitude."

"Of course your niece shall receive the treatment she needs – as we do not refuse to help _anyone_ , who asks for our support," he cut in, rather sharply. "But I'd truly appreciate a word with you, Ser – pardon, Lord Lannister," he added with as much politeness he could muster, even if he could not fully ban the swing of aggravation and annoyance from his voice.

Without waiting for an answer at all he then turned towards the group of small folk who had assembled close by to get a view at the strangers.

"Gladys," he called gesturing for the maid servant to approach them, "show our guests the way to Maester Caron's chamber, be so good."

"And Villie," he addressed a young boy beside her, "you'll run ahead and see that you find him, hurry up, will you?"

Just as he had expected, the little boy's face broke into a vast smile, gap-toothed. "Aye, Milord," he hurried to assure him, before he darted off to proudly fulfil his mission.

This seen to, Lord Selwyn turned his attention to the wounded girl once more.

"Lady, Myrcella," he addressed her with as calm and friendly a smile he could muster. "I apologize for the lack of joviality. "If you will follow Gladys, towards Maester Caron's rooms now, I will have a word with your uncle in the meantime. Your wound shall be seen to."

"M-most profound thanks, My Lord," she said, weakly, struggling for a polite smile, which turned out to be rather faint and uneasy, however.

All the while of their talking, Ser Bronn of – _'Blackwater?'_ He probably did not catch that right, Lord Selwyn assumed _._ Well, said knight continuously supported Myrcella Baratheon's weight, who still leaned against him.

"Can you walk?" he now murmured in a low voice, inclining his head towards her and she nodded, determinately, but stumbled at the mere attempt of it.

At this a streak of serious concern crossed the black haired knight's features and with more gentleness than his rough appearance might suggest him to be capable of, he lifted the girl's slender form up in his arms.

"It's all right, don't bother," he reassured her at the weak attempt of her protest.

"Come, little princess," he said, soothingly at which she relaxed, resting her head against his shoulder. And so the both of them turned to follow the maid servant's lead.

 _~oo~_

 **AN:** Thank you for reading my story and letting me know your thoughts and feelings about it!

I'm definitely very fond of the idea of Myrcella and Bronn as lovers. With her he gets the 'highborn beauty' the Lannister family promised him, for sure, even if that won't be the reason he craves her at that point of time. There are so many possibilities.

I know perfectly well, where I intend this story to go – the epilogue stands already – but I can see a couple of other, lovely options.

I could not find any story about the two of them so far, which is sad in my opinion as the pairing is certainly worthy to be explored.

Lots of thanks to **SebastiansGleek** for beta reading!

Serpentina


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